


Friendless

by TAFKAB



Series: Bird in a Gilded Cage [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, If you can't be with the one you love honey love the one you're with, Interspecies, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Oblivious Aragorn, Oblivious Legolas, PWP, Substitution, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5810521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without hope of acceptance from the ones they desire, Gimli and Éowyn turn to one another for comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friendless

**Author's Note:**

> I have added this old story to my EXTREMELY NSFW and HIGHLY OFFENSIVE "Bird in a Gilded Cage" series because upon reflection, I think it very likely belongs there. There is NO sibling or cousin incest and NO bestiality in this part, but there are plenty of each in the other parts. 
> 
> READ AND HEED THE TAGS ON EACH INDIVIDUAL STORY, PLEASE.

"I beg your pardon, Lady Éowyn!" Gimli bowed; his noisy steps had disturbed her, and he could see she was startled. Not only that, she was distressed, scrubbing at her face and trying to summon a watery smile. A heap of disused armor lay at her feet.

"It's all right," she wiped her sleeve across her eyes and rose.

"The women said you had gone into the caves to see if any armor had been missed," he explained. "I thought you would like to know Aragorn's wounds have been tended." He hoped to dry her tears. He had marked her wistfulness and thought he knew its cause. Her sorrow pained him. "He is hale, and he can fight!"

"I saw," her voice was husky. "Thank you, Master Dwarf." But her voice did not rise, and her face crumpled; she turned away, shoulders stiff with pride.

He hesitated, awkward, shifting from foot to foot, then went to her. "Don't cry." He thought he understood; his own heart was heavy. He laid his hand on her back. She shook her head, her golden hair spilling over his fingers. For a moment it made him think of Galadriel's long glowing curls, and a fresh pang of pain lanced through him.

"You are troubled by more than Aragorn's wounds," he ventured, and she nodded, but did not turn. "Come here; sit and talk with me." He slid his palm to her waist and urged her along with him. They sat down on a wooden chest, side by side.

She pushed her hair behind her shoulders, and Gimli touched it boldly, taking care not to tug the strands. "You have the Sun in your hair, like an Elf-queen," he murmured, letting it slide through his palm, and she blinked blue-eyed surprise at him, his words startling her out of herself. She laughed, shaky.

"And you have the sweet tongue of an Elf-lord." Her smile was warmer now, more real, and Gimli returned it, pleased.

"I only wish," he chuckled, and flushed, then pressed on without thinking. "It will not profit us to spend our last hours before the battle fretting this way."

"Us?" She was not so far gone as to let his hasty word pass unnoticed. Gimli felt himself color, and hoped she could not see it under his beard. He withdrew his hand. "No, speak!" She reached for his hand and he let her take it. "You must mean...."

Gimli cast down his eyes, but she rested her hand on his shoulder. "I have seen you with your companions. It could not be Aragorn...." Gimli shifted with dismay, in spite of himself. "It is not!" Understanding dawned in her eyes, and pity. "But he is an Elf, and the discord between your peoples thrives even in the tales of Men."

Gimli lifted his chin and looked at her; his pride held him steady in the face of despair. "He is my shieldbrother," he said simply. "And a brave warrior. We have shared peril and battle and beauty; I have grown to love him." She sat very still for a long moment, looking in his eyes, then nodded, her shoulders sinking and her gaze falling.

"Then we share a common sorrow." She began pleating her skirts between her fingers. "You are brave, to set your heart against kind and kin."

Gimli shrugged, embarrassed. "No more brave than foolish, perhaps."

"Perhaps." But her thought had moved on. "Tell me, Mas-- Gimli. You spoke of dwarf women, and how they are not known as women when they go abroad. Do they travel often, then, or do they stay home and tend the hearth?"

He bowed his head politely, accepting the familiarity. "They go where they will, and if they tend the hearth it is by choice. More often they choose to tend the forge and wield the hammer and the axe, particularly when their affections are not returned." He watched her consider his words, and again he regretted his own. "It would be better for dwarves, perhaps, if our women tended the hearth. Our numbers dwindle."

She shook her head, impatient. "They are right to do as they will; I would do the same, if I could." A fey light grew in her eyes. "All things dwindle to nothing, in time."

"Do not speak so." Gimli squeezed her hand, but her eyes still burned.

She seemed to forget him for a moment as she sat quiet, her eyes fixed on a spot just over his shoulder and beyond his face. Then her pale hand reached out and lifted the braid of his beard. He thought she trembled, but her voice was steady. "Is Aragorn's lady the Elf-queen with hair of gold?"

"No. Her hair is as dark as a raven's wings," Gimli answered, reluctant, and Éowyn nodded.

"Will she sail across the sea?"

"I do not know," he answered her simply.

"I would not." Her fingers unraveled the strands of his beard. "The King's counselor would have taken me to wife, do you know that? Wormtongue." This time he was sure she shuddered, but her hands were firm.

"I would slay him if he laid his hands on you," Gimli answered her simply. "And so would Aragorn, or Legolas."

"But you were not here, and neither were they." She began to untwine the second braid after her fingers combed through the first.

"My lady. Éowyn." He caught her hands gravely, wondering at the mood which had taken her.

"Wormtongue would not have had me," she confided to him, her lips lifting in a sudden smile, almost merry. "Better a sword than his bed, I think. But that no longer matters; I will not be his. You are right, Gimli. We should not grieve on the eve of battle." Her eyes caught his, defiant and lovely, her hair catching the light of the torch.

She was beautiful, like sunlight next to the light of Galadriel's evening star. Lovely but present, whereas Galadriel was remote-- and she was warm, whereas Legolas was cool. Gimli swallowed and stirred, uncomfortable. She freed her hands, leaned towards him, and reached over his shoulders to unravel his last braid; her dress shifted to let her breasts fall forward, soft and round and white as nesting doves.

"You say it is ridiculous to believe dwarves spring from the ground," she spoke, her voice very soft. "What if I would learn from you where they spring?”

"Éowyn...."

She spread his hair over his shoulders, leaning back to cover his mouth with one finger. "You have told me yourself: love may be felt between those who will raise blades together, regardless of kind." Her palm moved to settle over his lips. "Tonight we may die."

Gimli reached and took away her hand; his breath came short. "You flatter me," he told her, but he could not tell her he did not long for what she offered, and he knew she perceived his desire.

"Then we will live before the night falls," she whispered, clasping his fingers tightly. "And we will be stronger for it afterwards, and fight the harder. And if we should live to see the dawn, then we will be fast friends." Her eyes held his, and her breast rose and fell with the swift eagerness of her breath.

"We already are," he said, but he was lost. He raised his hand, blunt fingertips trailing across her breast, where her nipple stood ready beneath the soft cloth. She closed her eyes and shivered, then pressed his hand to her.

"Someone may come." He would not have her good name injured by this.

"I will bar the door." She rose swiftly and pushed it closed with her slim body, lifting the heavy iron bar and setting it in place.

Gimli rose and looked about at the chests and casks of salted meat, doubtful of the storeroom's comfort, but she took an iron ring from its peg beside the door and brought it to him. She turned it in the lock of a chest and he helped her throw back the lid; cloaks and blankets lay folded inside, ready for any who came to take shelter in the caves. She shook them out and laid them on the rough stone floor while he watched the clean flow of her limbs under her dress. She was very beautiful. He knelt beside her to help her spread the cloth.

"We should not do this, my lady." The linen of her dress was clean and soft under his callused palm, and the lines of her body were long and smooth.

"No one will judge what they do not know." Her fingers were nimble, and her hands fluttered over him like the wings of birds. Where they lit, his armor gave way to her. Her cheeks were flushed, but no longer with tears, her eyes bright and purposeful.

He stopped her when she reached his tunic, and set aside his mail. "Slowly," he soothed her. "If this moment is all we have, then we will not ruin it with haste." He feared she might be forcing herself forward so speed would outrun determination, and leave her no chance to reconsider her choice.

She smiled and sat back on her heels, hands folded in her lap. Gimli stood and walked near her, then put his hands at her elbows and slid them up her arms. Kneeling, she looked up at him, and he reached to touch her face, stroking her hair and tucking it behind her ear. It curved, round at the tip, not like an Elf's at all.

She tilted her face into his palm and he stroked the curve of her brow and the soft rise of her cheekbone. She did not flinch, letting him conduct his grave exploration, her lips parting to press against his thumb as it slid across her mouth. Her tongue flickered out to touch his fingers, surprising him, and she opened her eyes.

"I have no beard. Does that trouble you?"

"No." His voice rumbled in the quiet cave. "You know I have traveled far enough to learn to find beauty in more than my own kind." He touched her lips again, and they pressed against his fingertip.

The hem of her skirts was rumpled around her knees; he took care not to set his feet on the cloth as he slowly bent his head to her. Her lips were curved, smiling, when they touched his, and he pressed them softly, stroking her collarbones with his thumbs, testing her resolve. She opened for him and he tasted her, touching her tongue with his. A shiver went through her body, but her hands rose to his waist and she held him near when he would have withdrawn, making a little murmur of pleasure against his mouth.

Her hands slid up under his tunic to his back, and she arched against him, letting him feel her pleasant softness. He began to trust her as she continued to kiss him and did not shy away, and he let his hands explore the bones of her shoulders beneath the warm fall of her hair-- she was tall, but strangely fragile. Her ribs were a thin shell, the rapid beat of her heart thundering against his hand. Her breast was soft and hot in his palm, round and pliant and heavy. She made tiny sounds in the back of her throat when he pressed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Galadriel might feel thus. Legolas would not. 

Éowyn was who she was, and he was with her, so he forgot them in the feel of her body and the taste of her mouth.

She was no shy virgin, her bold hands tracing the contour of muscle and bone across his back and venturing down to his breeches. He shifted closer, letting her feel the heat of his desire, hard and urgent, straining against her belly. In return, her hands slipped lower, and she took the measure of his hips and thighs.

He filled his hands with both her breasts, still kissing her. Her mouth melted like honey, hot and willing, inviting him deeper, and he stroked his tongue inside to meet hers, slow and steady.

She pulled back after a moment to look at him, her lips red from his kisses, her smile almost wanton, and he tangled his hands in her hair to pull her back to his mouth, finding her as sweet a second time, daring more of his strength with her-- fragile to look at, to touch, she was nevertheless resilient, like all humans seemed to be. She took his strength without protest, her head tipping back as her knees slid further apart.

He sought the lace that fastened her dress and tugged one dangling end, and the knot fell apart. She seemed not to notice-- but no; she drew back and her own fingers found the knots that closed his tunic, and she made short work of them. The weight of her hair held her dress steady on her shoulders; Gimli could see only the faintest loosening of the cloth as its gathers began to give way about the untied drawstring.

He let her strip the tunic from him, and watched her eyes as she admired his chest; she seemed to find nothing wrong with the mat of red hair that covered it, instead trailing her nails delightfully through it, sliding them against his skin. She found his nipples, half-hidden though they were, and scraped her nails over them lightly, with a half-shy laugh. He wondered if she had been certain that he would be so much like a Man. If she was not, he thought she would learn much before the hour passed.

He smiled back at her, and she playfully caught his beard, lifting her mouth to be kissed. He kissed her, stealthily aiding the loosening of the string as he kneaded her shoulders. Her palms stroked along his bare arms, testing the tension of his muscles, and she teased his mouth, kissing him hotly and pulling away, nuzzling about his beard, her white teeth closing on the lobe of his ear once as she pushed back his hair. He laughed softly, rubbing his rough beard against her face. Her dress was very near falling now.

He pulled back to look at her, her hair askew and her eyes bright; the round pale tops of her shoulders showed over the cloth and she shrugged them with a secret smile, letting it slip-- once, then again, tantalizing him as more and more of her white skin showed, a few freckles on the top of her shoulders matching the scattering over her nose, speaking of childhood summers spent playing and riding in sunlit meadows.

The dress slipped, then held, and she looked at him through her lashes, playful and inviting, so he reached out and hooked his fingers into the cloth and pulled it down, baring the soft white roundness he had only glimpsed before. She lifted her shoulders, proud, as he looked at her.

Courtly words deserted him in the face of her simple loveliness, and he let his hands speak, reaching to cradle the soft flesh-- he keenly felt the rough dirtiness of his skin in comparison to the milk-white softness of hers, but she sighed with pleasure, her head tilting back as he touched her.

Her breasts yielded to his hands, tipped with soft pink like the secret depths of seashells, and he felt his mouth water at the thought of tasting one, so he pressed her back gently until she folded to the side and lay down on the blanket. He kissed her again, taking his time, then wandered down her throat, nuzzling and touching her flesh with his teeth until she squirmed, half-under him.

He moved downward gently, tracing tender skin lightly with his tongue, sweeping his mouth across the velvety curve of her breast until he caught her nipple with his lips. It had crinkled in the cool air of the cave, tight and high-set on the soft flesh that cushioned it. "Ahhh," he murmured, and covered it with his mouth to warm it. She arched and cried out, hands clasping behind his neck, teaching him her pleasure, and he lightly touched it with his teeth, hand on her belly, feeling it tighten as she squirmed.

Pleased with her response, he teased her, suckling until she gasped, hands urgent on the back of his neck. He could scent her heat now, but left it to wait as he took her other breast, savoring it, tasting salt as the faintest dew broke on her creamy skin. All the while his hand gathered her skirts, bunching them till one of her long thighs lay exposed.

Looking past the curve of her waist, beyond the tumble of cloth at her hips down along her thigh and calf, he thought he could see echoed in her something of the same grace and power of the horses of Rohan-- bred for strength and speed, untamed except by a beloved hand, tall and graceful, smooth-muscled and narrow of ankle-- she would have stamina and speed in spite of her delicacy. He smiled; perhaps she would not find the comparison a flattering one, no matter how he meant it.

Quickly now, all but certain of her, he swept his hands up inside of her thighs and delved beneath the concealing cloth. She cried out, and her nails dug into his shoulders.

There, yes. As eagerly as she had kissed him, her mouth had been cool and hard by comparison. He sought the way, wondering at how she was made, and she quivered, his touch wringing a breathy cry from her throat.

He touched her again, curious, watching her face. Her brow wrinkled as though she were in pain, and her lips parted; she lifted at the touch, and the small sounds in her throat were louder, so he stroked her again and again, watching her with fascination. Her fists clenched, tendons standing out under the blue veins at her wrists. Gimli marveled at her passion. No dwarf woman was built like this, to take such pleasure without having her lover inside her body!

Éowyn's flesh was tender, and the horned skin of his hands could not be wholly pleasant. Perhaps... He lifted her skirts, nuzzling his way down her belly. She had a fine, rich scent-- warm and healthy, and he breathed deeply, tickling her skin with his beard, before moving between her thighs.

She spread them eagerly, her fists moving to clench in the blankets, her breath coming fast, but she showed no surprise or hesitation-- it seemed she knew something of this sort of lovemaking, then. Perhaps unsurprising; she had not been a King's daughter, jealously guarded to preserve her proper place in the succession.

He almost chuckled, looking down between her parted thighs-- for all their seeming hairlessness, the daughters of Men were bearded after all! He leaned in to kiss her, replacing his fingers with his tongue.

She strangled her cry with the back of her arm, her hips lifting, and he held her down with his hands on her waist, satisfied he could please her. He murmured wordless endearments against her flesh as his tongue worked, making her writhe, and rode her squirming with rather more skill than he had ridden Arod-- tasting the heat and the secret salt of her body until at last she twisted under him and climaxed, sobbing helplessly against the arm she had bitten to muffle her cries.

She looked down at him then with the eyes of a wild thing, unsated, and struggled to sit up, her limbs shaky, her arms already reaching for him. He went to her and pulled her against him, their faces almost even now that she was sitting and he knelt. She put her face forward and lapped her own scent off his lips and beard, her pink tongue like a cat's, smoothing his coarse hair, her strangely smooth breasts pressed to his chest. Her hand wandered down to his breeches and inside; she closed her fingers around him, discovering his length and girth.

He pulled her face into his neck, stroking her slim back, where her spine made a narrow, uneven ridge beneath her skin. "I want to ride you," she whispered, her voice smoky-- and there was nothing of hesitancy about her now, nothing birdlike-- she was a tigress, and he was her prey. Alarm grew in him.

"We should not," he whispered with regret. "If a child came of this union--!" She nearly hissed her frustration, and it was her turn to push against him until he lay on his back on the blankets, feeling stone gouge into his back through the rough cloth.

"It will not." She attacked his breeches fiercely and dragged them down his legs, not bothering to tug at his boots; once he was hobbled she stood and let her dress drop from her hips, leaving her untrammeled. She knelt over him then, her hair cascading about them both like spun gossamer, and he thought for a fleeting moment of Galadriel, but then Éowyn's hand braced him, and her body fitted against his, leaving his prudence a fading memory.

She mounted him and sank down fast; she was tight for all her size and she shuddered, pierced deep. The cry from her lips betrayed her pain; her eyes opened, dark and startled. Gimli reached for her waist, clinging to the last shreds of thought, but she shook her head, her white teeth sunk in her lip as she waited to catch her breath. "You are not of a size with Théodred," she confessed after her breath returned, "but it has been long."

"Éowyn," he breathed, and he fumbled for her hands, clasping their fingers together. She braced against him, moving her hips, and he let his head fall back on the stone. His hips pushed up against her weight of their own accord.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice rich with triumph. She tossed her hair over her back, and her thighs flexed, lifting her, only to drop her onto him once more.

He growled low in his throat. "Again."

She obeyed, and he snapped his hips up to meet her, making her gasp. He was not able to meet such passion with indifference, and his cares fell from him as though he wielded his axe, his strokes strong and sure. She swayed and moaned, posting hard on him, sweat gathering at her collarbone, gleaming on her body, beginning to trickle between her breasts.

Time stretched as she rode, her lip bitten between her teeth. Tendrils of her hair caught and curled against her skin; her hands grew slippery in his, and still she rode him, her head listing to one side, her breath coming through her mouth in gasps and whimpers.

Gimli thrust up sturdily, meeting her stroke for stroke, determined to last until he had serviced her pleasure yet again, but soon his shaft burned hot as iron white from the forge, and he gritted his teeth. She keened, nails digging into the back of his hands hard enough to draw blood, and twisted her hips and tightened her body as she rode. He could hold back no longer. Her body's embrace tore a low roar from him that mingled with her soft scream; she ignited without warning. After a timeless moment of bliss she tumbled onto him, her body pushing the air from his lungs, her breasts soft against his face.

He turned her underneath him, letting her bear his weight for a moment; her hands slipped into his hair and she cradled his head between her breasts, her skin slick with wet salt. She shook as she breathed, slow, languid spasms punctuating the rapid rise and fall of her breast. Her eyes were open, and she smiled at him, face soft, before closing them again.

He listened, half afraid, but no footsteps approached their door; somehow no one seemed to have heard the noise they made. He relaxed, shifted till his body did not crush hers, and drifted in comfort, mouthing softly at her nipple.

"Do not fear," she murmured after some minutes passed, curling a lock of his hair around her finger. "My moon cycle has just ended; there will be no chance of a child."

"You ease my mind." He stroked her waist, feeling the burden of duty and care hovering, near to settling upon them once more.

"I have heard you bear your elf-queen's hair," she murmured, smiling down at him. "Now you bear something of me as well." She stirred, and he moved to help her; there was little enough time to dally; they must rise and be about the business of war.

"It is a gift whose value I cannot measure." He donned his armor as she stepped into her dress and pulled it up to her shoulders, tying the drawstring tight behind her nape. "But it is nothing compared to the joy I have taken in returning your smile to your face, my lady."

She smiled, and did him a curtsy before she left him. He folded the blankets and returned them to the chest.

*****

Legolas was glad to see Gimli; he had wondered at his friend's absence. "You have been long away," he commented, but Gimli merely grunted. In his arms he held a mailshirt, far too large for him, but Legolas did not speak of that.

Gimli flung down the coat of mail and drew out his axe; he glowered at the metal-bound haft with its studded grip, though Legolas could see no flaw in the making. "There is no decent armor in this keep," Gimli complained, and Legolas nodded; he returned to waxing his bowstring.

"It will rain on our battle tonight."

"Aye." Gimli paid him no mind, and they worked in silence, readying their weapons, until a hush passed through the armory.

"The White Lady of Rohan," Legolas murmured. She stood in the door, her eyes moving across the company that milled within, seeking someone she did not find. "She is as cool as winter frost," he judged, "with no hope of spring."

Gimli stopped and stared at Legolas for a long moment; from his face, it seemed Legolas had pulled him rudely out of the realm of his thoughts. "She needs only the hope of morning," he spoke, his voice gruff. "I would see she gets it, Elf."

Éowyn paused in the door for only a moment, her face revealing nothing, then she was gone.


End file.
